


i hope you find your peace falling on your knees

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: M/M, Size Kink, working under the assumption marshmello is Chris Comstock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 06:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11572788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: It should be easier tonotget your dick sucked than it's proving to be.





	i hope you find your peace falling on your knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dobrik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dobrik/gifts).



> some days you're on your bullshit. some days you're surfing ludicrous waves of bullshit. and some days you're writing 3.8k of marshmello sucking dick. such, as they say, is life. thanks for this, whyatt
> 
> enjoy!! xoxo

It’s not like Omar had thought it would be difficult to put Chris on his knees. 

It’s not a secret, not to the people that know. Marshmello, Dotcom… _Chris_ , whatever he goes by… _he’ll get on his knees, man, fuckin’ loves it. Anyone with a big dick_. Omar hadn’t really cared. It’s not his business, and the kind of people that talk about that shit aren’t the kind of people he cares to listen to. 

He’d never wanted to get Chris there, even if he’d known he could. It’s not his thing, fucking like that, much less his collaboration partners. 

For the first session it’d even been easy letting Chris lean into his space, letting him put his hands on Omar’s shoulders, his waist, but not letting it go any farther. Keeping it, fuck, keeping it mellow. 

Keeping it platonic, even though Chris has a mouth that makes Omar _wish_ he were the kind of person to take advantage of it. 

Christ had let off eventually. Eased off, settled back into his skin in a way that Omar can’t define but feels viscerally. More peaceful, more open, now that Omar’s set himself off-limits. Omar almost wishes he hadn’t, because he’d gotten too comfortable, too easy with him. Touching him, watching him, and Omar wants to say this is out of nowhere but… 

Chris blinks up at him from between his legs. His hands are light on Omar’s thighs, all bitten-down nails and scratched knuckles. He looks… he looks nervous, a little wild, eyes dark and big and trained on Omar’s face. 

“Let me,” Chris murmurs. 

“Shit,” Omar says, a blurted instinct. 

It hadn’t been out of nowhere, not really, Omar is surprised but he shouldn’t be. Chris, the slow build to this. Fingers brushing on sliders, shoulders brushing in the booth. Chris’s body bending towards his and his own body responding. Turning towards Chris even when he doesn’t have to, reaching out to press fingers to his wrist, the small of his back. 

He’s always wanted Chris but now he _likes_ Chris and that’s why he isn’t jumping out of his chair, halfway across the room already. 

He tries not to think about how it’s a little more than just like at this point. Something more like infatuation. Something like enchantment. God, he’s just trying to keep it together. 

“I wanna,” Chris tells him, low, tongue coming out to wet pink lips. “Fuck, want you so bad.” 

He sounds like he’s telling the truth. Christ, Omar wants him to be telling the truth. 

Chris’s eyelids flutter when Omar reaches out and threads his fingers through his hair. It’s not too hard to get a grip, and he can imagine how easy it would be to fuck into his mouth like this. Drag him up and down on Omar’s cock, hold him there until his eyes were rolling back, take charge of him. It would be easy to be gentle too, to set a slow pace and just enjoy the sight of his cock in that plush mouth. 

He’s so close to fully hard he’s kind of ashamed of it. He tries to focus. It’s fucking difficult. 

“You wanna, what, suck me off?” he asks and his voice isn’t the most steady it’s ever been but he’s kind of proud it isn’t just cracking right down the middle. 

Chris’s eyelids flutter again. A stutter of motion and his pupils are so wide, his cheeks flushing. Fuck, but he looks like he wants it. Omar wants to believe he wants it, wants to believe Chris wants _his_ cock. His mouth is so fucking pink. 

“Yeah,” Chris breathes. “Yeah, yeah I want that, fuck, please?” 

_Yes_ , Omar wants to say. _Yes, fuck_ , and to get his dick out right fucking now. Wants that mouth around his cock, wants to make Chris take all of it. 

He’s frozen, though. Frozen, because he isn’t sure. Isn’t sure if Chris really wants it, isn’t sure if this is what _he_ wants, isn’t sure if it’s what they should do. The thought comes to him that he wants to take it slow with Chris and he nearly laughs at that. Take it slow, like if they were dating- 

He hauls in a breath because there’s a thought he hadn’t realized was waiting for him. Dating. Him and Chris. 

Chris shifts in his grip and he blinks, refocuses. It’s a mess of thoughts he can’t pick apart, not right now, not with Chris’s eyes so big and dark on him. 

“Do you,” Chris begins and he doesn’t sound as sure anymore. Shifting again on his knees, rocking back and forth. Nudging his head back into Omar’s grip. Omar blinks at him again and he’s going redder. “I can, if you don’t… I can beg.” 

“I,” Omar begins but he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say so his voice trails off into nothing. He can’t stop staring at Chris. Chris stills, though it looks like it costs him, licks his lips again. It looks like more nerves. 

Omar doesn’t want Chris to be nervous, not like this. Not about this. 

“I’m good at it. If you want that?” Chris continues after a beat where Omar can’t find the words he wants to say. He sounds… scared. Desperate, a little, and like he’s trying to hide that fact. Like he’s scared of Omar saying no. “Fuck, anything you want, I’ll do it.” 

And Omar can’t hear that. Can’t hear Chris offering this with so much fear, can’t let it happen. 

“Shit, c’mere,” he says and tightens his hand in Chris’s hair. Tugs at him gently and Chris shuffles forward easily, expression going lighter, hopeful. “C’mere, sweetheart.” 

Chris’s cheek ends up against his thigh, soft and warm through Omar’s jeans. His gaze flickers from Omar’s cock tenting his jeans to his face, back and forth. More settled, but still antsy. Shifting in Omar’s grip. 

He tightens his hold a little more. Presses Chris down more firmly. 

“You have no fucking idea how bad I want you,” he murmurs at last and the shudder that runs through Chris is so gratifying. His lips part, hauling in a breath that echoes in Omar’s ears. 

He stays quiet. Looks up at Omar and waits. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, alright?” Omar continues, because that’s the way it’ll be. If he’s going to have Chris, he’s going to have Chris _right_ , have him in a way that’ll mean maybe he’ll get to keep Chris. Maybe explore that stupid, niggling _dating_ thought. “You don’t gotta beg for this, promise, I want you.” 

Chris whimpers. His hand on Omar’s thigh is shaking, and Omar wonders how many of the people Chris has done this for bothered to take care of him. Bothered to see him as more than a fuck. He pushes that thought away as soon as it registers, because Chris really doesn’t need him angry right now. He needs more of this, and Omar pulls his head back a little just to test him. 

He goes easily. Looks up at Omar and pants and waits. 

“You want my dick, baby?” he asks and Chris moans, tries to nod against the grip he has on his hair. 

He stays put when Omar lets him go. Watches Omar fumbling with his fly, the zipper going down so loud it echoes in his ears. He licks his lips as Omar works his boxers down, constrained by Chris between his legs and unwilling to move him. Omar’s a little clumsy with it, fumbles the waistband. His hands are so unsteady working his cock out but it’s worth it for the noise Chris makes when he sees it. 

It’s a thin moan, a plaintive wanting noise that hits Omar somewhere low in the gut. Makes his cock twitch, leaking precome all over his palm. It sounds so fucking good from Chris’s mouth, sounds like genuine need. 

“You’re so fucking thick,” Chris breathes at last and his voice is broken, and for a moment Omar hesitates but then Chris’s eyes are traveling up to his face and the want there is so naked, so hot. “Fuck, _please_.” 

He nudges back into Omar’s hand when he reaches out again, gets his hand back in Chris’s hair. Doesn’t press, doesn’t try to fight him. He’s waiting, waiting for Omar’s direction, and for a moment it’s almost too much. Too much, this much trust, this much need. 

Chris blinks. Licks his lips again. When Omar doesn’t move for a moment he nudges his cheek against Omar’s thigh. 

He goes easily when Omar pulls at his hair, a gentle tug, no intention to hurt. Shuffles forward until his breath brushes Omar’s cock and Omar hisses, pulls him to a stop again. 

“You sure, baby?” he asks, though he knows the answer. This one is for him. This one is for the way Chris’s lips part, his pupils so big and dark, his breath coming in pants. He’s straining now against Omar’s gip, unconscious, tugging towards Omar’s cock. 

“Please,” Chris gets out, and his voice is a ruin, and Omar realizes he could never deny him anything. Not here, maybe not ever again. 

Chris moans when Omar finally pulls him all the way forward but Omar can’t pay attention. 

Chris’s mouth is so soft. Soft and wet, pressing to the base of Omar’s cock. 

Omar hauls in the grunt of pleasure, keeps it trapped behind his teeth. Presses Chris’s mouth harder to his cock, feels Chris’s moan vibrating through him and knows this will be quick. Too long in coming, built up between them in their casual touches, their bodies learning each other from a distance. 

“All yours, babe,” he grunts at last and eases his grip. 

The first touch of Chris’s hot tongue to his cock is a revelation. Little licks, short and hot and cooling as he goes, working up from root to tip. Slow, so fucking slow and something in Omar aches to grip him by the hair and yank him down, fuck into the heat of a mouth that's barely touched him. 

He meets Omar's eyes, a lightning glance up through his lashes, pressing wet, obscene kisses to the underside of his cock. Mouth and chin a mess of spit and precome already, wrecked and red, pulling back to smile blissfully up at him. 

“You taste good,” he murmurs and Omar is gasping for air at his words when he moves to readjust and slides down to take all of Omar's cock in one motion. 

Omar curses, loud and uncontrollable, his hand going tight and trembling in Chris's hair. It's all he can do to stop himself from coming into the slick heat of Chris's mouth. 

He takes Omar so easily. 

He's thick. He knows his own fucking cock, knows he's thick, knows he's big. But Chris is taking it so smooth, so easy, he takes all of Omar's cock like it's nothing. It stretches his mouth, hollows his cheeks, but he swallows around it. Bobs a little, and his nose brushes the curls at the base of Omar's cock. 

Omar tries not to yank on his hair, though his hand is trembling, his grip is so tight. He's fighting to push back orgasm, the tightness in his balls, the surging _need_ in the pit of his stomach. 

God, but he isn't going to last long. Too tense, too full of need, Chris bobbing messy and noisy on his cock. 

“Shit, baby,” he grits out and he isn't even ashamed of how rough his voice is. 

Chris pulls back until just the head of Omar's cock is pushing between his lips and looks up at him. Big blue eyes, wet, leaking at the corners. His mouth is swollen, red and sore-looking. 

Omar wants to kiss him. 

He isn't even shocked by the thought anymore. He wants Chris, wants him bad. Wants to press kisses to his wrecked mouth, bite until he whimpers. Wants to bounce him on his cock, hands on Chris’s soft hips, his thighs, kissing him breathlessly. 

He wants to fuck Chris. Wants to open him up on his fingers, take his time until Chris begs. Begging for him because he’s just so impatient for Omar’s cock, not out of some desperate, horrible need to please. He wants to do it right, make Chris shake by the time he’s ready to press inside. Slow, a slow press in so he doesn’t hurt Chris, so he can feel the tightness of Chris opening up for him. 

Chris pulls off to press a chaste kiss to the head of Omar’s cock. It’s chaste, but so wet, and Omar’s hips buck a little into it. He can’t help it, can’t stop himself, the head of his cock rubbing messily across Chris’s lips in a smear of spit and precome. 

“Your fucking _mouth_ ,” he gets out through his teeth and Chris smiles up at him. 

He looks dazed. A mess, panting and tonguing his bottom lip, and Omar wants to pull him up on top of him. Wants to watch Chris rub himself off against his thigh, wants to palm his cock until he cries, wants to watch the wetness in his eyes spill over for him. 

Chris goes down easily when Omar pushes at him. Sinks back onto Omar’s cock with a moan, he sounds _grateful_ for Omar’s cock, and Omar curses. Lets his hips roll up into it because he’s not trying to win any fucking competitions today. He just wants to come, wants to paint Chris’s face with it, wants to mark him as his. 

Orgasm is pulling everything in him tight, shaking, on the verge and about to topple over. 

Chris looks up at him, eyes heavy under his lashes, and hums. And that’s it, Omaar is coming so hard his vision fuzzes out, his hand going tight in Chris’s hair. He loses himself for a moment, loses control. 

When he comes back to himself Chris is still mouthing at his cock in sparks of overstimulation, buzzing too-much pleasure. Omar’s hand is heavy in his hair and when he moves it languidly Chris comes up and smiles at him. His mouth is wet with Omar’s come. 

Omar watches him swallow and his cock twitches. 

There’s a moment where Chris is on his knees and Omar’s come is all over his mouth and the look in his eyes is… 

It’s nervous. Nervous, and uneasy, and the thought stirs in him that Chris has been here before. Been on his knees for men less principled than Omar, men who maybe weren’t kind to him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out in a rush and Chris twitches with it, something barely less than a flinch, and the certainty settles into his bones. He doesn’t move away when Omar tucks himself back in and zips up, doesn’t even when Omar leans forward over him, stays in place and watches Omar move. 

He does flinch when Omar reaches down, gets his hands under his arms and lifts. 

It’s not easy, the angle is awkward, but he gets them both up on their feet. Chris staggers a little bit, knees buckling, and he’s staring at Omar with wide, confused eyes. He’s shaking under Omar’s hands but he goes easily, goes so fucking trustingly, lets Omar back him into the studio table. 

It can carry Chris’s weight. Omar remembers this, Chris crawling on it, running around the studio, so fucking excited, so energetic. Chris doesn’t flinch this time when Omar grabs him again, gets his hands around his soft waist and heaves him up on it. He just sprawls back, arches into Omar’s touch. 

He’s hard and tenting his jeans. It’s so easy to see like this, Chris laid out on the table for him. Legs sprawled open, obscene and lax and waiting. He twitches when Omar’s hand falls to his thigh. A little motion, hard and uncontrolled. Needing, the way he tries to stop himself from moaning as Omar presses his fingers in deeper. 

“What d’you want?” he asks quietly, running his hand higher up Chris’s thigh. Pressing his thumb into the crease of thigh and hip until the breath hisses from Chris’s chest and his back arches against the table. “Fuck, you sucked me so good, baby. You want me to get you off too?” 

“Shit,” Chris hisses. Omar grins at that, he can feel the smile spreading across his face like a razor. Predatory, almost, the way he wants to hold Chris down and give him pleasure. And Chris is watching him, dazed and awed and nervy, waiting for his touch, anxious for his touch. 

“This how hard sucking my cock got you?” he asks and Chris cries out as Omar cups the hot bulge of Chris’s erection. Presses down, gentle massaging until Chris is shaking again. “You like my cock in your mouth that much? It get you going like this?” 

“Yes,” Chris sobs out, his hips bucking futilely against Omar’s grip on his hip. “Yes, shit, please.” 

“God, you look so fucking good,” Omar tells him and his hands aren’t their most steady in yanking Chris’s pants down but at least Chris is trying to help, arching, lifting his hips, putting himself even more on display. 

He’s a wet dream, with his pants off. 

Omar lets himself look, for a long moment. Drags his eyes down soft thighs, thick hips, the little swell of his stomach. The bulge of his cock against his boxers, wetting a little patch of the fabric with precome. He can’t see Chris’s ass like this but he knows it, knows it from covert glances out of the corner of his eye he refused to acknowledge he was allowing himself. It’s a fucking work of art, soft and plush and curved. 

Fuck, he wants to fuck Chris. He wants to do it right, will make sure the first time is right, but he also wants to do it quick, wants it dirty, wants to push him against a wall and pound into him until he screams around the fingers Omar stuffs into his mouth. 

Chris whines again when Omar gets a hand under his thigh, lifts his leg to rest on his shoulder. Pulls him bodily closer, leans in until Chris whimpers again, pain this time. Bent nearly in half, thigh up to his chest, his panting brushing like feathers against Omar’s cheek. 

“You want me to touch you?” Omar asks, soft, and Chris’s eyelashes flutter on a moan. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, a late response. 

“Like this?” Omar asks and presses his fingers into the soft give of his hips. Presses in and kneads a little, enough that it has to edge into an ache. Chris arches again, tries to buck and fails against Omar’s grip. 

“No, no, I need,” Chris tries to say, voice breaking on the edge of his moan, his breath coming too short. He’s falling apart, cheeks red, mouth still a wreck, so easy and Omar has barely palmed his cock. He’s so fucking perfect. 

“This,” Omar offers and his hands are on Chris’s thighs this time. Spreading him wider, fingers digging into the softness of them. He doesn’t miss the way Chris’s eyes roll back with that, with being moved and held open like this, the way the flush is running down his throat, the way his cock twitches so hard it’s visible. 

“Please,” Chris gets out and it’s a whimper. It’s a wreck, and Omar can’t ignore the open desperation in it. 

Chris cries out when Omar tugs his boxers down off his cock. He’s shaking, hands fists against the laminate of the table, struggling to keep still. 

He twitches when Omar leans in closer, body flexing to let him. He looks so bewildered when Chris nudges his hand, lifts it a little. 

“You can touch me,” he mumbles and this doesn’t come as easily as the dirty talk but the way Chris’s body is suddenly a pool of released tension makes it worth it. “You wanna hold onto me, babe.” 

Chri’s hands find his shoulders a moment before Omar’s hand finds his cock, but then his nails are biting into Omar’s shoulders and if he hadn’t come a moment before he’d be rock fucking hard at it. At the arch of Chris bucking into his hand, the rake of his nails against Omar’s skin, the cry of pleasure he’d let out, barely muffled. His whole body is spread out and curled around Omar, open to him, ready for him. 

The angle is stupid but Omar discounts the ache already building in his wrist and moves. 

It must be so much for Chris, the way he bucks and moans at every movement of Omar’s hand. He hits a rhythm easily, something that keeps Chris just back from the edge of desperation but still drives the volume of his voice higher and higher. He doesn’t want to draw it out much, not really, wants to give Chris what he wants. Wants to touch him. Give him pleasure. 

God, but he fucking wants to fuck Chris so badly. Every way there is. Fast and slow and rough and gentle, he wants to find the things Chris likes and do them over and over to him, wants to show him everything Omar can do for him. To him. 

Chris whines, high in his throat, needy and wanting, and Omar tightens his grip. 

“C’mere,” he gets out and bends forward, and-

Their first kiss is messy, wet, halfway to unconscious but still so sweet. Chris’s mouth as soft now as it had been around Omar’s cock, giving for him easily, and he tastes of Omar’s come. He kisses Chris for a long time, works him through it in slow, even motions that speed when he breaks away to breathe. 

“You taste like me,” he mumbles stupidly and Chris whimpers and suddenly his cock is pulsing, stripes of hot wetness painting between them. 

Omar fumbles for a moment but pulls himself together, works Chris through it until he whines and pushes at Omar’s shoulders. He lets go reluctantly, careful, takes the care to tuck Chris back into his underwear. He doesn’t go far either, just leans back enough to let Chris breathe. 

Chris is still watching him, dazed, eyes big and hazy with orgasm and whatever thoughts are buzzing around in his head. 

“You should come back to my hotel with me,” Omar says, and he doesn’t phrase it like it’s a question even though it is one. Chris watches him for a long moment longer. Evaluating. Waiting for something, and Omar doesn’t say anything. 

“Okay,” Chris says at last, and he’s starting to smile.


End file.
